Die Already

by O. J. Anderson

conclusion

They stop. Jack turns. “What?”

“Tootsie! My best friend.”

“What about her?”

“What if she didn’t make it out with the others?”

Jack says, “I’m sure she did. Now let’s move.”

“But how can you be sure? I didn’t get out.” She clasps her hands together, pleading. “She was supposed to be on the third floor. Can we please just take a look? Oh, please please please please...”

Jack relents; it wouldn’t be a bad idea to do a walk-through of the building just in case there are others, as Bob Masterson apparently has zero accountability of his people. “All right,” he says, “We’ll do a quick sweep of the third floor. Then we beat it, Tootsie or no Tootsie.”

“Oh, thank you thank you thank you. I’ll show you where the stairs are.”

Kelly takes the lead down the hallway. Typical gun-chewing airhead it seems. Bleached hair. Tight jeans. Then, casually, as they walk, she asks, “Why are you guys wearing those suits?”

Jack grunts, “Because there’s a deadly super-fungus on the loose.”

“Those suits won’t help you.” She laughs. “It’s a bacillius syranic type fungus. Aconitine plural with built-in meiosis-karyogamic inhibitors. Might as well save your sweat.”

That was odd. Jack and Lucky exchange curious looks. Then Jack says, “You sure do know a lot about funguses.”

“You mean fungi,” Kelly says.

Jack and his men stop. Level their weapons at the girl.

“Right,” Jack says. “Fungi.”

Kelly freezes with her hand on the doorknob leading into the stairwell. Does a slow about-face. The jig is up and she knows it. There’s a brief stare-down until Kelly’s face begins to droop, like she’s melting. Her jaw dropping down to her stomach. The shoulders go next. She then shape-shifts into a greenish fungal creature. Blistery. Slimey. Gross. It ends up looking somewhat like a little man with a large forehead.

Jack: “Dr. von Brink, I presume?”

“More or less,” the fungus says. “But you may refer to me as Dr. von Brink if you wish.”

“How about I refer to you this way?” Jack and his men open fire. Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!

It’s like fighting a pudding monster with a pick-axe. Globs of fungi splatter the door and walls. Von Brink’s upper torso area disappears, some of it punching through the door and spattering across the stairwell. What’s left collapses to the floor.

A pile of green goop and three smoking barrels.

“Some super-fungus,” Jack says. He reloads. Grabs the radio. “Black Two, this is Black Ace, over.”

No response. He tries again. Still no response. Jack clips the radio, heads for the door, and says to his men, “Let’s go link up with our boys and get out of here.”

A minute later, the fungus in the hallway begins consolidating itself. Smaller bits and droplets oozing their way back to the main glob. It gets bigger, wiggling and bubbling. Bigger. Soon it is able to stand again.

Outside, Jack and his team doubletime toward the east side of the base. They then enter a large, two-level building, but stop abruptly as soon as they see what’s inside. The door clicks shut behind them. They stand looking at a large room, maybe some sort of reception area. A few sofas and chairs, TV, coffee tables, and a desk at the far end. All of it green with fungus. Everything. The walls, all the furniture, even the ceiling. Like in a cave.

A large portion of the ceiling fungus droops down slowly. Forms into a large droplet. Falls to the floor. Then, rising up from the floor, comes the fungoid form of Dr. von Brink.

“You again,” Jack says.

“Don’t waste your bullets,” Von Brink says. Two more blobs of fungus, from the ceiling on either side of him, drop down to the floor and rise up into Von Brinks. There are now three fungoids standing side by side. They say in unison, “You can’t kill me.”

Bringing up his weapon, Jack says, “I can try.”

“Your men are safe for the moment!” they say quickly. “I wouldn’t do anything rash.”

Jack holds his fire.

“That’s right, Creed. I’ve got three of your cronies. I’m holding all the cards now. So I’ll do the talking and you’ll do the listening. Got it?”

Jack’s policy on being taken hostage is this: don’t be taken hostage. However, if taken hostage, all the men know to either fight their way free, or die fighting their way free. There may or may not be a rescue team coming. Jack needs to buy them a little time, but first he has to even the score. He unclips his radio and says, “Rivers, this is Black Ace... Arm the Circle of Doom, over.”

“Roger.”

The Von Brinks shout, “You’re bluffing. You wouldn’t dare!”

“Once I’m on the job,” Jack says, “I do what I gotta do.”

“Do you have any idea how easily I could kill you? Have you any idea how deadly I am? Huh? I could kill you right now, impersonate you, synthesize your voice, call in the rest of your cronies, kill them, and make off in your vans? Do you know how easy that would be?”

Jack says, “Those vans have biometric scanners on the ignitions. You’d never get them started.”

The three Von Brinks frown and dip their heads in concession; of course they are.

“No,” Jack says, “you’re not going to do any of those things. And I’ll tell you why.” He unzips his biohazard suit a bit and slides a fresh toothpick from his pocket. “Now, I don’t know a whole lot about fungi, but I do know this: the desert isn’t exactly the optimal environment for a fungus, is it? Too hot. Too dry. You can’t last out there for more than what, a few hours?”

The Von Brinks mumble, “That sounds about right. Yes.”

“But even those vans won’t get you far.” Jack looks around the room. Sees the windows blacked out with cardboard. “Nah, you need the controlled climate of an aircraft. Load up plenty of water to keep yourself moist. Get where you need to go with a quickness. Problem is you can’t fly. Need a pilot. Need hostages to get a pilot.”

The Von Brinks clap slowly, as though parodying a sarcastic villain from a cheap action film. “Bravo, Creed. Bravo.”

“But here’s what I want to know,” Jack says. “Why? Where you gonna go? The tropics? What’s the point?”

“The point you ask! Why to take over the world of course. There’s a suitable laboratory in Costa Rica where I will continue my research and begin spawning the Fungus Race. You will all one day bow before the fungus!”

“I don’t think so,” Jack says. From somewhere outside he hears the signature report of Pk-12 shotguns blazing. His boys are out and going for it. This conversation’s over. Jack says to the fungus, “Enough chit-chat, Von Brink. We’re outta here.” He does a quick about-face.

“Wait! Wait a second! Let’s talk it out.”

On their way out the door, the last thing Jack and his men hear the Von Brink fungoids say is, “Damn you, Creed!”

* * *

“Black Ace, we’ve got a problem, over.”

“Talk to me,” Jack says, but he can already see the problem up ahead. A horde of giant fire ants is feeding on the carcass of a downed bumblebee. The .50s are working the ants from both sides, but there are too many. And more are coming.

“Eighty-eights are set. Take cover.”

“Roger that,” Jack says into the radio. He then tells Smith and Lucky, “Let’s get to that building over there.” Pointing to the small brick one-storey off to their right. They run to it, kick in the door, and hit the deck.

A rapid succession of thoops from the vans. Rivers has three 88 tubes set up. HE. Frag. Willy Pete. Air burst. He’s throwing all they’ve got down range. Three more rounds are airborne before the first three land. The impacting mortar rounds explode with a distinctive schkrunk! followed by a cool breeze of concussion that makes Jack’s ears pop.

Just as he’s thinking how he’s missed the sound of 88s lately, a giant ant bashes his ugly, mutated, ovoid head through the window right across from Jack. The three men open fire. Big flaky sections of head, globs and spews of ant brain-matter go flying back out the window. The gravediggers turn the head into a large salad bowl. The dead ant slumps and twitches.

Over the radio: “We’ve cut you a path, Black Ace. Move in ten seconds, over.”

“Roger.” Jack tells his men to get ready to haul ass like they’ve never hauled ass before.

Three more rounds. Schkrunk! Schkrunk! Schkrunk! Jack whips open the door and they move out at full tilt towards the gate. They have a clear path back, weaving their way through craters, streaks and puddles off slime, and mangled ant parts. There are a lot more giant fire ants on both sides. But they’ve begun to feed on their wounded and are not an immediate threat.

* * *

Rivers has already called back the vans. Jack slows to a trot as he approaches the mortar tubes. Once everyone is reassembled, they power up the ion cannons and position them so that the beams will be spread evenly across the kill zone. The Circle of Doom has already been armed. There’s just one thing left to do.

Jack positions himself with the air base as a backdrop. Faces Bob Masterson. Time for some profound words to cap off the mission: “Some freak show you guys are running out here.”

Whoompf! The earth trembles. Dyer Air Base disappears under a cloud of destabilized molecules.